


Not With Haste

by PrioritiesSorted



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“May I?” </p>
<p>Myrcella took a deep breath before sweeping her gold curls back from her face to reveal the puckered red line that ran from her forehead to the dark space where her ear had once been. Shireen’s face remained impassive, and her fingers were warm and gentle and she traced the line of the scar across Myrcella’s face</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not With Haste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [congratsyouvegrownasoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/gifts).



> So I wrote this ages ago and apparently completely forgot to publish it. 
> 
> In any case, I am proud to present what appears to be AO3's first ever Shireen x Myrcella fic! Enjoy.

There was a knock on her door, and Myrcella started. It was rare for her to receive visitors in this new court; she was the daughter of a house in disgrace, and there were many in the city who wondered why the new Queen had not yet had her executed. She called her welcome, and the Hand of the Queen entered, smiling warmly in a way that seemed at odds with his position, but then Davos Seaworth was at odds with most things in King’s Landing; Myrcella liked that about him.

“Lady Myrcella, I hope you are well. Queen Shireen requests that you dine with her this evening, though her Grace asked me to stress that if you are still indisposed then she quite understands.”

Myrcella simply stared. She had been left mostly alone in the days after Queen Shireen had taken the throne, and generally she had preferred it that way. She mourned the death of her mother and brother, and could not have coped with the cold condolences of the new court, not when she knew that they were glad to see her family burn during the Dragon Queen’s brief reign. Now, however, she had begun to grow lonely, shut up as she was in the Maidenvault with no-one but a few maids for company.

“I… no. That is to say that… I would be honoured to dine with the Queen if she requests it of me.” Myrcella stammered, and Lord Davos smiled.

“The Queen will be pleased to hear it, my lady.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘my lady’ you know.”

“I don’t, but I was born in Flea Bottom, and people here call me ‘my lord’. Whatever your parentage, you are a lady, my lady.” He gave a short bow and turned to go.

“Lord Davos,” Myrcella called after him, “thank you.”

“I will return for you in an hour, my lady.”

For the first time in what felt like an age, Myrcella felt a thrill of excitement. But one thing still worried her: what would she wear? The dress she had on was splattered with mud from her walk earlier, and had never been fit for dinner with a Queen anyway. She opened her closet, resigned to the obnoxious reds and golds that confronted her. He mother and uncle, _no, Father,_ were both dead, but they had left her as a reminder of her house’s shame; she would not dress to emphasise that. Amongst the heavy gold brocades and rich red silks, the lightness of the turquoise gown stood out. It had been a gift from Princess Arianne, though it had not yet been warm enough to wear in King’s Landing. Today the castle was stifling, and the godswood not much better; Myrcella let the material run like water over her fingers and thought it unlikely that the Queen would mind if she did not observe the fashion of the court.

She took more care over her appearance than was usual, tugging her hair up out of her face and examining herself before allowing her curls to fall back into their usual position, hiding the scar she had gained in Dorne almost six years before. The Queen had her own scars, more extensive than Myrcella’s own, yet she still could not bring herself to admit so openly the loss of her beauty.

_As brave as a lion,_ she thought bitterly.

When Lord Davos arrived to escort her to her dinner he smiled warmly, and Myrcella felt the last of her tension leave her.

“Are you not rather too important to be running such errands, Lord Davos?” She teased, and Lord Davos chuckled.

“Aye, perhaps, though more enjoyable than many of the duties as befit my station.”

They chatted pleasantly as he led her through the familiar corridors of the Red Keep. Myrcella inquired after the training of the new Queensguard, which Lord Davos told her was making excellent progress,

“Though the Lady Brienne works them a little too hard sometimes.”

“I’m not surprised.” Myrcella admitted; her own training sessions with the Commander of the Queensguard often left her unable to move for hours, but she was getting good.

Soon they came to the Queen’s chambers, Lord Davos knocking softly before letting Myrcella into the airy room, smiling at his Queen, and retreating back down the corridor. Somehow, with Shireen inhabiting it, the room was lighter and more spacious than it had ever seemed when her brothers were Kings.

Myrcella was always in awe of the young Queen’s boldness; she supposed that if she herself had been scarred from infancy, she might be able to wear her disfigurement with the same air of disregard. Shireen wore her brown hair pulled away from her face, letting the faint waves ripple down her back and revealing the full extent of the damage done by her childhood illness.

“Lady Myrcella, I am so pleased you accepted my invitation,” the Queen smiled, and Myrcella found that, despite the stone-like scarring, her face was terribly soft; a dimple creased her unmarred cheek and her dark eyes crinkled in genuine pleasure. “I found myself longing for some company of my own age. I have a fine council, but they are all rather grey and bearded.”

“I am most happy to oblige, Your Grace.” Myrcella said, and she found that she meant it. Shireen, however, frowned a little.

“Truly? You must be frank with me; if you need more time to become accustomed-“

 “Your losses have been no less than mine, Your Grace,” Myrcella interrupted, unwilling to let Shireen apologise yet again for something that had never been her fault. “And you are rebuilding a broken realm; the least I can do is come to dinner.”

The Queen relaxed, then, and gestured that Myrcella should sit.

 “You make it sound much more arduous than it is; mostly I find myself listening to old men talk and finding myself unable to think of a single thing to say. Lord Davos is a great help, though, as he was to my father; I think he grieves as much as any of us, but he is unfailing in his kindness.”

“I have found him very kind, Your Grace.” Myrcella agreed.

“He is, but you need not call me ‘Your Grace’, not when it’s just the two of us. I have been ‘Your Grace’ every day for the last month, and I fear I may forget my own name.”

The food came in, then, and Myrcella realised how hungry she was. Her stomach gave a rumble, and she blushed, but Shireen only laughed softly.

“I do hope we’ve not been starving you!”

“Not at all. I went for a walk in the godswood this morning, though it had become afternoon before I noticed.” Myrcella admitted; the soft warmth of spring had crept into the air that morning, and she had felt cramped and lonely in her rooms alone. Though she was no less alone while walking the godswood, she found she minded less with the quite whispers of the leaves around her.

“Do you walk there often?” Shireen asked, serving herself from the silver dishes before them.

“Quite often; Dorne was beautiful, but very sparse, and the godswood is so full of life now that spring is here.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Dorne.”

“Not particularly; the Martells were very kind to me but… others were not so.” Her hand flew to her hair, suddenly painfully aware of the scar that crawled across her face.  Shireen must have noticed, because she frowned,

“Is that why you wear your hair like that? Because of your injury?”

“Well, I cannot tuck it behind my ear.” Myrcella tried to joke, but she knew the wry smile wouldn’t reach her eyes. She imagined she looked rather like her Uncle Jaime, like her father.

Shireen, unsurprisingly, was not reassured, and she rose from her chair to walk around the table and crouch before Myrcella, concern shimmering in the blackness of her eyes.

“May I?” Myrcella took a deep breath before sweeping her gold curls back from her face to reveal the puckered red line that ran from her forehead to the dark space where her ear had once been. Shireen’s face remained impassive, and her fingers were warm and gentle and she traced the line of the scar across Myrcella’s face. She stopped at the dark hole where Myrcella’s ear had once been, seeming to hesitate for a moment before resting her hand on the unmarred skin of her jaw.

“That must have hurt rather a lot.”

“In truth, I do not remember;” Myrcella admitted.  “I think I fainted before I really knew what had happened, and when I woke up my face was covered by bandages.”

“I’m sure you were terribly brave.” Shireen smiled, though Myrcella felt a rush of embarrassment.

“Hiding behind my hair? If I had your courage I might decide I didn’t care about people staring, but I do not.” She was ashamed to admit her weakness; whether it was what little remained of her mother’s influence, or the simple result of comparison with the Queen before her, Myrcella could not tell. Shireen, however, only shook her head.

“Your pain is not comparable with mine. I would never have been beautiful, even without my scars; you had so much more to lose, though somehow you have not lost it.”

Myrcella blushed.

“I… Your Grace, do not say-“

“I am sorry, Myrcella. I have inherited my father’s bluntness, and I often forget that not everyone is as accustomed to it as Lord Davos.” She smiled, and Myrcella found she had forgotten her argument.

“I… I’m sure I wouldn’t mind becoming accustomed.” Myrcella stammered, and she thought she saw a faint blush cover Shireen’s cheek.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t either.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fairly certain no-one will read this, since Julia and I are quite possibly the only Myrcella/Shireen shippers in the galaxy. 
> 
> So if you have read it, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
